Idle Hands
by Slurk Back Some Brandy
Summary: Having to keep out of the public eye means living a boring life for the girls. When a scandalous incident forces them further into hiding, Bubbles looks elsewhere for busywork, and may end up working too closely with a former foe. Futureverse
1. The Simple Life

A day full of ass-kicking was always long, and hard, but left Bubbles feeling satisfied. It was nice to fall into bed with sore muscles, full of happy exhaustion, and just not have to think. The feeling of accomplishment and the stink of sweat were the perfect combination.

In fact, she loved the blissful emptiness of those nights so much that she had taken to running, on those midweek days when their town was free of ne'er-do-wells and sea monsters. She would wake up early, pull on her tennis shoes, and take a long circuit around the city, making sure to cut through every possible park or garden. She loved the way it flexed her calves, and the rhythmic slap of her shoes against the pavement.

She had tried taking Buttercup along with her once, but her rougher twin hadn't gotten much from the experience.

"You mean, you don't even use superspeed?" Buttercup had asked, bewildered.

Bubbles flipped her hand dismissively.

"Of course not, it tears up the concrete and it goes against the whole point."

"Okay, but..why?"

Unable to explain, Bubbles had to practically drag her around the last few blocks. Buttercup groaned, periodically zooming ahead and falling back. So after that Bubbles mostly jogged alone. It didn't really do much to her physically, she was still built like a superhero and always would be, but she liked to think it did her good, whether or not her muscles were made of stuff too stern to be molded.

And this morning, like most mornings, she bounded her happy self through the front door around nine and said hello to her sister. Buttercup gave her a cheery hello back, leaning on the back two legs of the kitchen chair and lighting up a spliff.

"Hey there, Bubblegum. Anything going down outside this morning?"

Bubbles kicked off her tennis and sat in the opposite chair. She wrinkled her nose.

"Do you have to do that inside?" she asked defeatedly, already knowing what the answer would be.

As if on cue, Buttercup blew a practiced, skunky smoke ring across the table.

"Not like I can do it outside. One nasty picture in the tabloids and," Buttercup sucked on it deeply, "who knows."

Bubbles sighed, shoulders slumping.

"Yeah. But it's so pointless, you know? We can't even get high. It's dumb."

Buttercup shrugged and stabbed the joint out on a coaster. "So's your morning habit."

Bubbles had nothing to say to that, so she stole a triangle of her sister's toast like a petulant child and munched on it thoughtfully.

"It's so quiet around town. I hate it. Is that wrong? I mean, I shouldn't _want_ banks to get robbed, or people to get hurt. I just..want something to _do._" Bubbles took a sad glance around at their apartment. It was lofty, and expensive, with a huge window through which to see the enormous emergency beacon that had replaced their blinkie-nose phone. But the two of them hadn't cared much to furnish it, so it was mostly empty, save for the 'stylish and chic' changes Blossom had insisted on making when she thought she was destined for decor design. Thankfully, after she had accepted the full ride to Citiesville University and stayed there to enthusiastically chase her various dreams, there were no more unexpected wallpaperings or gaudy modern art light fixtures.

The days passed mostly in silence. The girls would sit around, blow their monthly stipends from the city on ice cream and beer, and play cards. Bubbles wiled away the hours with exercise, while Buttercup spent more of her time exploring the seedy backstreets of Townsville, alternately beating up and gambling with the know-nothing thugs, crushing their dreams of being big-time gangsters before they even began.

On those nights she would come back with poker winnings and, on one notable occasion, a bloodied gold tooth, which Bubbles decided would be worth 50 chips in their own just-for-fun game.

But sometimes there were still disturbances, and the ladies hopped to action like there had never been down time. Slimy things still crawled from the deep and knocked down skyscrapers, there were still giant robots and, occasionally, old faces cropped up to wreak their usual havoc.

These tended to be the hardest, at least for Bubbles. Buttercup attacked old foes and new with the same unending relish, always with a smile. They even managed to be as efficient with two as they ever had with three, adapting their old attack patterns to compensate. But no matter how old Bubbles got, or how much she saw, there would always be things that triggered visceral childhood feelings.

At least one night a week, she would sleep feverishly, dreaming she could feel the tentacles of her stuffed octopus stretching and groping, speaking in the hideous falsetto she locked away in her memories, trying to control her. She would hurl the toy away from her, listen to it squeak as it hit the wall, and curl away from it, tossing and turning. Come morning, she would collect it, coo an apology to it softly, and tuck it back in bed, shuddering to herself and reminded herself that nothing could hurt her any more.

"No, I get it. There's nothing to do around this place when we're not fighting." Buttercup said. She considered for a moment, chewing her lip.

"We could tear down a gang or something. I think there's some punks starting trouble uptown." She raked her hand through her shaggy black hair. "You know, small-time shit. But never too early to put the fear of us into them, right?" She grinned.

Bubbles looked around at their messy kitchen, and thought about the one frozen pizza left in the fridge, and the long night she would spend eating it alone.

"Yeah, okay."

o.o.o.o.o


	2. Sour Taste In Your Mouth

The north side of Townsville is a nasty place. It runs from the edge of downtown to the upper city limits, and is almost exclusively slums. Past the last skyscrapers, the city dissolves into small eateries and tourist-trap stalls and shops, eventually leading into check advances, pawn shops, and cheap fast food, with the occasional titty bar or all-night liquor mart. It was home to the hopelessly poor, and those who wished to fly below the radar of Townsville authorities, and it was the favoured stomping ground for the Gangrene Gang.

The girls flew overhead, lowering themselves slowly into the winding streets. Buttercup had briefed her sister on the details of the gang they had come to apprehend, helpfully picked up here and there through the bloodied mouths of the thugs she was used to escorting to jail.

"They call themselves Los Plagos. Couple of dumb kids from the strip, been hitting up abandoned homes, setting fires, selling drugs." Buttercup shrugged. "Pretty typical."

Bubbles sighed, touching down on the cracked asphalt.

"...Well, let's do this then." Bubbles mumbled. What she had meant to say was 'that's so _sad_', but she stopped it coming out of her mouth. Every once in a while the tragedy of a situation struck her, but she refused to let it bother her, or at least she tried. With everything she had seen, there was no reason she should pity these kids, or any delinquent teens she brought kicking and crying to prison. But sometimes she still did, and it left her feeling like something heavy had settled in her gut.

It didn't take long to find the Los Plagos hideout. It was a heavily graffitied PODS storage shed, sitting and rusting behind a deli with dark windows. In the light of the setting sun, the grinning skull spraypainted across the door looked appropriately menacing, surrounded by amateurish paintings of oozing sores and, and, impressively enough, a likeness of a plague doctor under the scrawled words "NO ENTRAR".

The girls exchanged a look, and a quick nod. They took a mutual step toward the shed, when it rocked unexpectedly with a meaty thump. The thin sound of a girl crying filtered out through the air vents. Buttercup's brow furrowed, and the two girls barged inside, tearing through the thin metal of the shed.

Los Plagos, it appeared, was made up of four skinny teenagers, all of whom were pressed by their shirts against the sheet-metal inner siding by Big Billy, two in each fist. A pregnant high school girl sobbed quietly in the corner, blocked off from the action by a sombre looking Grubber, who held a switchblade loosely at his side. Arturro paced around Big Billy's ankles, barking orders and questions in Spanish, presumably acting as translator. Snake stood watchful by the doorway, and Ace surveyed the action from the middle of the room. They all turned when the girls arrived, and the pregnant girl smiled through her tears with an almost palpable sense of relief. Ace grinned, bowing low, and extended a hand.

"Ladies, how kind of you to join us," he said in a nasal voice. "We was just havin' ourselves a little party, weren't we, boys?" He gestured broadly to the captive kids, and his toadies nodded enthusiastically.

"Y'see, these boys, they owe us a little money. And by a little, I mean a lot. So we thought we'd come and collect it from 'em, bein' as how we'se such understanding guys, right?"

Bubbles glanced at the boys on the wall. They tried very hard to look brave, but one had a dark stream of piss staining the front of his pants. She looked away.

"An' so we'se askin' them for it, but they don't wanna give it up. You can see the difficulty I'm placed in, here." He flashed a crooked salesman's smile at Buttercup, and her eyes glinted with something black and hateful.

Bubbles made a move toward Big Billy, and Ace's eyes darted. He clicked his tongue to give an order, and Grubber's hand flew up, pressing the knife to the pregnant girl's cheek. Ace shook his head.

"Uh-uh. We need our money, sweetheart. These boys owe us and we ain't leavin' without it." He directed a pointed glance at one of the boys pinned to the wall. The teenager started bawling.

"We don't know what you're talking about, man! We didn't take anything from you! Swear to god! Swear to god, man!"

Ace strode over to the wall, digging a finger into the boy's chest. Arturro echoed his voice in Spanish, for the benefit of the other three.

"This is _our_ turf, you hear me? Our turf, in _our town_. You want to be peddling your shit in our neighbourhood, that means you're takin' our customers, and _our_ money. And if you ain't got it, we're gonna take it from you one way or another. Capiche?"

The kid opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted when he fell to the ground. Bubbles had slammed her fist into Big Billy's face, and he let go of all four teens with a wheeze. A flash of blue-green light whirled around the room as the girls took down the gang one by one. Buttercup tossed Grubber into the air, and flung his knife after him, pinning him to the ceiling by his ragged collar. Bubbles knocked Snake and Arturro's heads together, dropping them in a tangle at the doorway. She delivered a final kick into Big Billy's exposed stomach, and helped the pregnant girl to her feet, mentally wishing she had remembered enough Spanish to understand the stream of thanks pouring out of her.

Buttercup stood facing Ace in the center of the shed, while Bubbles tried to calm the shivering Los Plagos membership. Buttercup bared her teeth involuntarily when Ace shot her a grin.

"Hey honey, whazza matter? You don't think fair is fair no more? Somebody steals something, you take it back, right?" He shrugged. Buttercup balled her fists.

"Ace, you have ten seconds, because I really want to beat your ass. Get out. Take your goons with you."

Ace frowned, narrowing his eyes. He took a step forward.

"Listen, sweetcheeks, I ain't leaving here without what's mine. We both know you ain't gonna do jack shit about it." He reached out one arm and lifted a piece of her hair. Her shoulders tensed, and color bled into her cheeks and spread.

"An' anyways, you're still wishin' you could get a little Ace at night, ain't cha?" Buttercup's blush was furious now, and something shifted in her face. Bubbles watched her set her teeth, and something felt wrong, unfamiliar. Buttercup cocked back a fist, releasing it as hard as she could with an primal yell.

Ace grabbed the piss-pants kid by the arm and yanked him in front of himself, quick as a flash. Buttercup's fist collided with the side of his head, and his skull gave like a piece of fruit, caving deeply around her hand. He made a pained squawking noise, and blood spurted out the corners of his mouth. Ace casually released his arm, and the boy's knees buckled, dropping him to the floor with a sickening wet thud. A bubble of blood swelled and burst in his nostril, and poured steadily from between his slack lips. A single spatter of blood flecked Buttercup's shoe, and she looked at it in disbelief. The room went silent. Bubbles was frozen, eyes trained on the slowly spreading puddle under the boy's face, then noticed her sister. All the blood had drained out of Buttercup's cheeks, and her hands shook.

Ace's mouth spread in a proud smile, and no one spoke until the twang of a knife freeing itself from the ceiling and the subsequent smack of Grubber hitting the ground snapped them out of it. Buttercup stood in the center of the room, looking down at her bloody fist, and past it at the wreck of a boy on the floor. His hands clawed open and shut. Bubbles didn't wait for her, and swung an elbow hard to the back of Ace's head, dropping him outside with the rest of his gang. Buttercup knelt, gingerly scooping the fallen high schooler with the ruined head into her arms. She spared a glance at the other teens, and zoomed out the hole they had made in the trailer. The floor was a lumpy mess where his head had landed, and Bubbles helped divert the attention of the other kids away from it as she led them away.

ooooooo

Two hours later, the girls stood in the mayor's office, and if it were just their silhouettes, they could have been mistaken for each other. Bubbles took a fighting stance, her feet apart, finger shot accusingly toward the mayor. Buttercup was splayfooted on the carpet, hands balled, looking away with uncharacteristic silence. Her messy bob hung forward on either side of her face, partially obscuring it. The mayor snuffled angrily, his face cherry-red.

"We didn't call you! This boy's 'accident' is entirely on your heads!" He roared. Bubbles threw up her hands.

"What, so we're NOT supposed to stop gang violence? We're NOT supposed to keep the city safe?" Her shoulders hunched up around her face. She looked like she was tensing up to leap across his desk. The mayor gestured to the button that activated their emergency beacon, and the old phone he kept under a glass case.

"You're supposed to do those things _when we call you!_ Otherwise, it's vigilante work, and everything you do is your own responsibility!" His mustache ruffled over his old-man teeth. Bubbles took a step forward, eyes blazing.

"This was the Gangrene Gang, you KNOW THAT. Maybe if the law enforcement in this city would step the fuck up for once, it wouldn't be up to us to-" She was interrupted as Ms. Bellum laid a cool, manicured hand on her shoulder, speaking softly and with authority.

"Everything you do reflects on this city. That boy's family is up in arms, the public is up in arms. If you're going to work for the city, and make no mistake, you work for the city, then you need to follow orders and only follow orders. We need you to lay low for a while. Stay home. Relax." Her plump red lips pulled into a condescending smile. Bubbles frowned at her.

"Apparently, we don't work for the city at all. Looks to me like the city owns us." She said. Ms. Bellum shrugged.

"However you want to look at things. We'll know from the doctor if there's been any brain activity by tomorrow. Until we call you, stay home." Bubbles wondered to herself if she meant only to solve crimes, or if they were going to be sequestered entirely. Ms. Bellum spoke crisply.

"We'll have someone come by your apartment with food and necessities for a week or so."

Well, that answered that. The girls shuffled out of the office, and started walking home. Bubbles scowled, kicking a rock. Buttercup looked impassive, until she exploded, punching a trash can in half.

"FUCK!" she screamed. Bubbles looked at her, shocked. Buttercup's face twisted, in the ugly way of an adult trying not to cry.

"I fucking killed that kid."

Bubbles had nothing to say, and they flew the rest of the way home in silence.


	3. Those Weary Hours

Click.

Bubbles switched off the television, and her hand lingered in the air, as if daring it to come back on and spew more hate at them. For days the only thing the networks talked about was the girls' rash behaviour, asking how could they be trusted, did the city sanction their actions? It was an endless drone of betrayal that reminded some deep part of her of the awful days when the city first realized their powers. She heard the entire story of the kid's life again and again, while they showed the same picture of him, smiling, a high school sophomore's yearbook picture, over and over while an anchor spoke sombrely in the background about his dreams for the future.

"We don't have to watch this, you know," she suggested to Buttercup. Her sister sat slumped on their worn easy chair, her face obscured by shadow. They had covered their bay window with a quilt of blankets, clothespinned together, to keep out the paparazzi and to try to block out the noisy protests against them from the streets below.

Slowly, as she realized Buttercup had no intentions of replying, she lowered the remote. Her eyes fell to her knees, and stayed there uselessly while she tried and failed to think of something to say. Buttercup surprised her by speaking first.

"Am I a monster?" Her voice was soft, and when she lifted her gaze to Bubbles her eyes looked huge and childlike in the low light.

Bubbles opened her mouth to reassure her, to say something about 'accidents happen', or 'you couldn't have meant that', and was slowed by the vision of Buttercup in the Los Plagos shack, tensing her body and setting her jaw. She had absolutely meant to throw that punch, and they both knew it. Bubbles knew that her sister and Ace had a spotty history, starting from her first crush and lasting all through those fragile preteen years. Bubbles remembered waking up with a cold spot in the bed where she should have been, an open window squeaking at night. And more than once, pretending to be asleep as Buttercup climbed back into bed and cried as quietly as she could into the blankets. Blossom had slept like a log, but Bubbles always heard it, and never quite forgot that feeling of being unable to help.

Ultimately, she spoke a moment too late, and with a voice just barely too high and a smile too saccharine.

"Of course not, Buttercup! You didn't want to kill anyone. How could you have? You didn't even know that kid." It sounded fake even as it was coming out of her mouth, and she deeply regretted it.

Buttercup's face closed into a mask, and she slumped down a little further with a 'humph'.

Bubbles felt a part of her sink inside, somewhere that hurt, and after a minute or so of silence, she switched the tv back on.

[author note: Yes, I know, this one was tiny. I decided to split this chapter into two parts, since you've all been so patient. So now you have a little something to read while I finish the rest of it. Again I apologize for no Mojo yet, but the lack of Mojo will soon be over! Soon you shall have Mojo to read, which is to say he will be a character in this story forthwith, and furthermore this story shall be mostly about Mojo, in that Mojo is a main character and will not be ignored, but rather be integral to the plot! Oh, god. It's starting.]


	4. Sing My Favorite Song

When news came that the boy was awake, and breathing on his own, people all across the town heralded it as a miracle. For a few days, it was the only news anyone reported on. And then, with the steady, inexplicable crawl of a slow-moving stream, people forgot about it. There were other things to be outraged about. A teacher in the downtown area was caught with a huge cache of lesbian pornography, a cab driver ran someone down by the city limits. When the flashing lights outside their makeshift curtains dies down to a trickle, and finally stopped entirely, Bubbles took the curtains down. As she plucked the clothespins from the first blanket edge, she paused, waiting for the sound of cameras, or angry shouts. The blanket slumped to the ground, letting a bright streak of light into their living room, and there was no one outside. She took the rest of the quilts down with superspeed, unsure why it felt so distasteful to her. On some dim level she realized that after their month-long internment, it wasn't the boy who was being forgotten, but the girls themselves. She blinked against the sudden brightness of the sun reflecting off their neighboring buildings, and felt a weight in her chest, filling her up. Suddenly she needed to be remembered, and needed, and useful. She burned with it. It gnawed at her the rest of the day, scorching the edges of her like a piece of paper. Finally, while she and Buttercup were trying to watch a crass comedy about college kids on a road trip, (which Buttercup found hilarious, and had recovered enough to laugh plenty for both of them) Bubbles stood from the couch and walked out the door, into the oppressive rising heat of an early summer afternoon, to talk with the mayor.

It went exactly as she had been afraid it would. They dismissed her, looking not into her face but past it, and fed her line after line of clipped, political bullshit about how they would wait until the tide changed, maybe in a few months. Secretly Bubbles wondered how likely it was that they would be waiting until the upcoming election was over, and came to the conclusion that it was not only part of the mayor's plan, but the plan in its entirety. Or even more probably, Ms. Bellum's plan, as the ancient mayor seemed less able to make decisions than ever. She glared at Ms. Bellum from the middle of the room, hating the way middle age had served only to give the official an air of authority and grace. And it was then, while Bubbles stared into the mass of frizzy, soft curls covering the face of the woman currently making her life hell, that the screams started below.

Through the first few cries, Ms. Bellum made a show of keeping calm, staring directly into Bubble's face, continuing her practiced speech. But the screams began to rise from the streets into a horrifying chorus, and underneath and around it there came a huge, metallic whine as machinery moved. They could hear the sidewalks crunching, and a shadow began to creep over the edge of the mayor's carpet. The mayor and his assistant craned around Bubbles to look, and Bubbles stared them down, pretending to ignore the pins and needles that swept over her skin in waves, the tense muscles in her calves and stomach rising and flexing. The mayor sat back in his seat, pale and nervous, and Bubbles watched Ms. Bellum shift her jaw, relished the uncomfortable look on her elegant face. Finally, she looked at Bubbles and locked eyes. Bubbles grinned, and lifted off the ground for the first time in a month, bursting through their plate glass window and out into the sunlight with something close to joy.


	5. Our Moment On The Stage

As soon as the plate glass broke, the whole world was screaming. Bubbles could hear it from inside the office, of course; her hearing was not only super but worlds above her sisters', perhaps to make up for her comparatively poor eyesight. But when the glass shattered onto the sidewalk below and she was in the air with the noise, it was deafening. The robot screamed, the squealing brakes and tires of cars screamed, throngs of people hurtling down the streets screamed as if they had never seen mayhem before. It was huge, a metal behemoth on grasshopper pistons of legs, its tempered glass dome rising up above rooftops and gleaming in the sun. It strutted through the streets, aimlessly crushing lower levels of structures as it moved with slow, deliberate strides toward the bank.

Normally, the things happening here would bother her. Like how there seemed to be more civilians in the line of fire than usual. They were even in the buildings, falling and jumping out of windows and being clipped by panicking drivers. It would bother her that she could hear people screaming "What's going on?", when it was patently obvious. He may as well call it the Mojo-Mobile and paint his face on the side. There was really only one villain in the area with a penchant for robotic overcompensation. On a normal day, it would bother her that the Mayor and Ms. Bellum seemed genuinely distressed, rather than simply urgent or even uncomfortable. But today, she couldn't care less. Today, she was free, to stretch her legs and do what she did best. All she could think about was the sun warming her hair and the wind whipping against her legs. She wanted to call out to Buttercup, let her in on the fun, but the fight was here and now and Bubbles was damned if she was going to fly home to fetch her now. If Buttercup heard the commotion, she would come on her own. Either way, Bubbles was going to take care of this one. Mojo was a perfect way to get her back in fighting shape. He was challenging, unlike the Gangrene Gang or Fuzzy Lumpkins, but predictable, unlike Him or Sedusa. Sure enough, as soon as the thought crossed her mind, the loudspeaker burst forth with low, broken English.

"People of Townsville! Your Powerpuff Girls are no more! The heroines on which you have depended are no longer dependable! They have left you, and you have abandoned them! Now, I, Mojo Jojo, will rule! Who will stop me? No one! Who will stand against me? No one! You are powerless! Alone! Without assistance or aid!" His robot arms extended towards the bank, obviously intending to rip a hole in its roof.

"Now, I will take from you your money, the wages you have earned, the sweet reward of your hard day's labor, and you will-"

THUNK.

Bubbles landed on one knee on the dome of the robot, and smiled down at him through the thick glass. He was momentarily startled enough to not turn off his microphone, and she was rewarded with a bewildered 'Whaaat?'

"Stop right there, Mojo!" It was too loud and over-dramatic by half. She couldn't wipe the smile off her face, and struggled to seem at all serious. His brow furrowed up at her, obviously confused both by her presence and her unnatural good cheer. But he was nothing if not able to think on his feet, and she immediately had to hop to avoid the blade that came whipping over the glass at her. It slid from one side to the other like a giant windshield wiper, catching the sunlight and throwing it onto her face. She laughed, a bright giggle, as she sidestepped it each time, even flipping up onto her hands and cartwheeling past it. It was just like jumping rope. She saw the frustration darken his simian face, the lips curl over the sliver of visible teeth. God, had she ever missed this. The robot tilted backward, its huge back legs bending in on themselves, and its front legs swiped up at her. She wrapped her arms around one and snapped it, crippling its balance. Apparently he was out of practice at this, too. As it struggled for purchase on the concrete, its mounted guns missing her wildly, she punched through the glass and reached for the blue fabric of his chestpiece. He turned his face away, his hands held up in a plea for clemency. It was over, the finality of her holding him up by the shirt was always the defining moment of closure. After this, tradition states that she rough him up and fly him to jail as usual. But today was different, and she wasn't ready for it to be over yet. Who knows how many more days it would be before there was another ne'er-do-well causing trouble in her fair city? She wanted to savor it. So she lifted him up in his harness and dropped him back onto his seat, drifting back a few feet in the air and drinking in the confusion on his face.

"Not a chance, Mojo!" Her high voice cut through the noise of the crowds below, who turned up their faces to watch her. "The Powerpuff Girls are back in town, and you're finished!" She held out her arms, and fought the urge to close her eyes and smile as the cheers began to replace the screams. With a showmanship very unlike her, she broke the robot's other legs, swooping between them and bending the metal at the joints. Usually that sort of flourish and razzle-dazzle was Blossom's style. Bubbles preferred to get the job done quietly and go home, being somewhat shy, and Buttercup was too involved in the fighting itself to pause for a performance. But today she was too punch-drunk with sunlight and freedom to even consider being done as quickly as possible. The robot began to fold in on itself, screeching and groaning as it fell, and she flew beneath it to cripple the last leg. As it weaved heavily around her, she looked up at the underbelly of the thing and saw a small rectangular panel that seemed separated from the rest. A groove ran along the length of it, and it was fitted with a slim blue light that further distinguished it from the rest of the silver-white metal. She slid her fingers into the groove and yanked down, feeling it slide out of the mechanism and thud into her arms. It was the size of a big, hardcover dictionary, and continued to glow even when separated from the rest of the machine. Without it, however, the robot's hum died, and it collapsed to the ground, lifeless. Mojo lost no time, unhooking his restraints and scrambling out of the cockpit. Bubbles cradled her discovery in her arm, scooping him up with her other hand and giving him a small, cursory knee to the stomach before flying off with him to deliver him to the county jail.

He allowed himself to be carried without much of a fuss, understanding the battle was lost and having no interest in getting his face smashed further. It was something she almost respected, or at least appreciated. He had been caught, he was going to jail. He put up a good fight when he had a chance, but in the end she had bested him, and he was too smart to fight the power that was holding him a hundred feet above the pavement. Besides, it would be futile. He saved his strength for prison, and his eventual, inevitable release. It struck her as strange that he always managed to find a way out, but then, he was the supergenius, not her. Besides, she was too intrigued with the box she had recovered to give it much thought, and the question itself had been brought up and dismissed so many times in her long career as Townsville's savior that at this point it seemed as banal and pointless as 'which came first, the chicken or the egg?'.

She dropped him off at the jailhouse, letting the guards lead him to a cell. Due process was more or less useless for those citizens who never stayed in jail long enough to even be granted a court date. She had smiled graciously and maybe even blushed a little at the glad yells from the civil servants who greeted her, 'Good to have you back', 'We missed you', and zoomed away almost as soon as Mojo's pointed boots touched the ground. She wanted to know more about what she had recovered.


End file.
